


The Ward Ghost

by solarishashernoseinabook



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: All the ward children feature in this one I don't care if it's contrived damnit, Alternate universe - Morgarath wins, Angst, Child Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Rebellions, Will doesn't get an apprenticeship, tags/relationships/characters to be added as they appear, trans!alyss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarishashernoseinabook/pseuds/solarishashernoseinabook
Summary: Halt is unable to attend Will's Choosing Day and he doesn't get selected by anyone. Will gets sent off to a farm with the expectation that he'll live a quiet, albeit unglamorous, life.And then it all goes wrong.Now 21, Will is on the run, Morgarath is king, and Duncan and his family are dead. But Will gets wind that there's a rebellion in the works. Someone from Duncan's family is still alive, and Will is determined to help them get the throne back.
Relationships: Cassandra | Evanlyn/Alyss Mainwaring, Halt O'Carrick & Will Treaty, Horace Altman/Will Treaty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. Carroway Farm

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much to Mel and Thursday for beta reading, you two are awesome <3 
> 
> A lot of the first part of this chapter is taken directly from the chapters where Will's choosing happens, but slightly altered to be in my style instead of Flanagan's and to condense the events a bit. Everything after the first text break (and a paragraph or so before it) is fully original writing. 
> 
> This is more of a prequel than an actual first chapter but I can't select "Prequel" as an option so. The story really kicks off in the next chapter lol.

It was Choosing Day for the Ward children, and Will’s anxious anticipation only grew as his wardmates were called up to request their apprenticeships and all were accepted. He only felt a small flutter of pride when Alyss was accepted by Pauline instantly; he couldn’t take any amusement in George suddenly going mute, or Jenny forgetting to say her name. All that existed was a cold pit of dread in the bottom of his stomach.   
Arald indicated for Will to step forward and he did. His throat was dry and his voice was barely a whisper. ‘Will, sir. My name is Will.’   
‘Will? Will who?’ Martin asked in exasperation, flicking through the paper he held. He scowled at Will. ‘What’s your family name, boy?’   
Will started to stammer, unsure how to answer, but the Baron intervened. ‘Will is a special case, Martin.’ He turned his attention to Will. ‘What school did you want to apply for, Will?’   
‘Battleschool, please, my lord,’ Will said.   
The Baron frowned and Will felt his hopes sink. ‘Battleschool, Will? You don’t think you’re…a little on the small side?’ the Baron asked gently.   
Will bit his lip. ‘I haven’t had my growing spurt yet, sir. Everyone says that.’   
The Baron rubbed his chin and looked at his Battlemaster. ‘Rodney?’   
The battlemaster stepped forward and studied Will. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid he’s too small, my lord.’ Will felt a cold hand clutch his heart.   
‘I’m stronger than I look, sir,’ Will said, but the Battlemaster looked to Arald and shook his head.   
‘Any second choice, Will?’ Arald asked, his gentle voice showing concern.   
Will hesitated, never having considered this before, then said, ‘Horseschool, sir?’   
Ulf, the Horsemaster, shook his head even before Arald asked his question. ‘I need apprentices, my lord,’ he said, ‘but this one’s too small. He’d never control one of my battlehorses. They’d stomp him into the ground as soon as look at him.’   
Will’s vision was blurred by tears now. They rolled down his cheeks, but he couldn’t do anything about it.   
‘What skills do you have, Will?’ Arald asked.   
Will wracked his brains. He dismissed languages; Alyss was good at that. George was much better at writing, and he couldn’t get as interested in cooking as Jenny.   
‘I’m a good climber, sir,’ he said finally.   
That was a mistake; it prompted Chubb to blurt out that Will had once snuck into the kitchen to steal some cakes, further causing Nigel the Scribemaster to say that Will had once let loose rabbits in the study during a debate. Arald moved the conversation on from his complaints. ‘Do any of you have use for this boy?’   
One after another, the craftmasters shook their heads.   
Will had had some brief, desperate hope that someone would save him from a life of farmwork, but no one did. The craftmasters filed out and the Ward children were dismissed. Will followed them reluctantly. His wardmates were all celebrating their last night of freedom together, but Will had no appetite. Insisting he was fine, he went to walk in the forest, only returning to his room long after everyone else was asleep. 

*

Halt, Ranger for Redmont Fief, had been unable to attend the Choosing Day ceremony. Having heard rumours that Morgarath might be using Kalkara this time, Crowley had sent him and nine other Rangers to track them down. It wouldn’t be easy, nor would it be over with quickly, but Crowley had had no choice. He had pulled some older rangers out of retirement to help fill the gaps in the meantime.   
Halt had accepted without protest. He hadn’t told Crowley that there was a boy in the Ward he wanted for his apprentice and it wouldn’t matter now anyway: his first loyalty as Ranger was to the king and kingdom of Araluen. As he and his fellow rangers tracked the Kalkara down, he spared a thought for the bright-eyed lad he had seen every so often. The thought that the boy would be wasting his life as a farm hand distressed him.   
The last thought he had before hearing the Kalkara scream was that he would try to find whatever farm Will had gone to and right his wrongs. 

*

Will didn’t touch his breakfast that morning, despite Alyss and Jenny both gently coaxing him. Horace’s continual taunts and jokes weren’t helping. ‘They’ll probably get him to a farm only to find he’s too short to hold a plow,’ he said.   
‘Horace!’ Alyss snapped, but Will didn’t bother responding. As far as he was concerned he had already proven to be a disappointment to his father, and he knew he would never amount to anything on a farm. Oh, the old stories always had a clever farmhand saving the day, but everyone knew it never happened in real life. When he finally gave up all pretense of eating he went to the main tower of the castle and trudged up the stairs, dragging his feet, to go see Baron Arald.   
Martin herded him in with far less fanfare than he had yesterday, and kept his voice to a more normal level when he opened the door to Arald’s office. ‘Will, my lord.’   
‘Thank you, Martin,’ Arald said. His voice was similarly low. Perhaps, Will reflected, he had asked his servant to tone it down in deference to the solemnity of the occasion. The Baron gestured for Will to take a seat, and after a moment Will did.   
‘Will,’ Arald said. ‘Let me start off by saying I’m very sorry for what happened yesterday. I understand how you’re feeling right now.’   
_No you don’t_ , Will thought, refusing to meet the Baron’s eyes, but remained silent.   
Arald slid an envelope across the desk to him. ‘That contains your assignment. Bob Carroway’s farm. I asked the aldermen in local villages and apparently his farm is large and understaffed. You’ll be welcome there.’ When Will continued to stay silent he went on in a low voice. ‘I’m very sorry, Will. But you’ll have a home there, and the alderman says good things about Carroway. He doesn’t have children, so maybe one day it could be your farm.’   
‘My father was a knight,’ Will said quietly.   
‘Is that so?’ Arald said, apparently thrown off by the abrupt change in topic.   
‘I wanted to be a knight, too. To live up to his memory.’   
‘Well,’ Arald said. ‘Well. I’m sorry, Will. But that’s not my decision to make. Sir Rodney has already decided he can’t take you on.’   
Will could feel the Baron’s eyes on him and hear the sympathy and awkwardness in his voice. It was probably intended to be comforting, but it just made Will feel worse. He refused to look up to meet the Baron’s gaze.   
He picked up the envelope. The paper inside felt heavy – that meant it was something official from the Baron, written on good-quality paper. Part of Will knew he should be honoured the Baron had used this when any correspondence with a mere farmer could have been done with cheap paper instead, but as far as Will was concerned the paper he now held was as valuable as old hay.   
Abruptly he stood up. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He gave the Baron a short bow and left his office. 

*

Carroway’s farm was indeed large, and hosted a large herd of cattle as well as two coops worth of chickens and fields of wheat and oats. How one man and his wife had managed all this, Will didn’t know, because even with him, Mr Carroway and Mrs Carroway all working, it took almost all day to do everything.   
Every morning Will would go with Mr Carroway to the cow shed while Mrs Carroway went to the chickens to collect eggs and feed them. The eggs had to be collected early, because every morning their neighbours would come around to buy eggs, and between this and the weekly markets they earned enough money to keep the farm running throughout the year until harvest time, when they could sell their crops.   
The farm had a horse who pulled the plow and the wagon on market days, and she had to be fed, watered, groomed, and her stall cleared out. The cows all had to be milked, which Will hated doing – he almost always ended up milking Bessy, who would wait until the bucket was nearly full and then kick it over, wasting everything in it. Will once tried bracing the bucket with his legs only for Bessy to give him a sharp kick that left his ankle bruised and swollen for a couple of weeks, and Will decided the wasted milk was worth it if it meant he could walk without injury.   
Once they were done milking the cows were let out to pasture for the day, during which they did the rest of the chores in the barn: filling the water trough, putting out hay for the cows to eat at night, cleaning their straw, and putting fresh straw down when needed. Then, following a quick breakfast, he would have to go to the fields, weeding and chasing away birds and small animals that tried nibbling on the plants.   
He and Mr Carroway would have lunch in the field, then Will would come back to the farmhouse to help Mrs Carroway churn the milk into butter to sell at the market. This too was hard work, and with Mrs Carroway developing arthritis in her shoulder Will had to do the majority of it. If any milk was at risk of spoiling before it could become butter, it was Will’s job to turn it into cheese. This, at least, Mrs Carroway could help more with, but it was still a smelly and gross job and Will doubted he would ever look at cheese the same way again. Then Mrs Carroway would coat the cheeses in wax and take a long, sharp knife to cut the cheese into wedges to sell at the market. Finally they would eat a hearty dinner and Will collapsed in a simple bed in a small room at the back of the farm house, too worn out to think, and would sleep like a log until the next morning, when he would do it all again.   
He got letters from his wardmates every so often. Jenny always sent hers in a parcel with biscuits or cake she prepared for him, Alyss would write about the missions she went on and George sent long, rambling letters that always ended up arguing with themselves about an issue that Will neither knew nor cared about. At first he read and responded to each one, but after a few months he stopped responding all together. What was there to say? Should he find another way to describe cleaning up cow dung, or mention Bessy had wasted yet another pail of milk?   
As Will stopped sending letters, his friends stopped as well, the letters and parcels petering out until there was nothing left coming to him. Will didn’t attend the harvest festival even though he had the day off, and didn’t respond to the letter Jenny sent after saying they had missed him there. Seven months had passed since the Choosing Day, and by now Will was completely disconnected from the people who had been like a family to him. 

*

Will knew something was wrong when he woke up and didn’t smell anything from the kitchen. He slid out of bed and dressed, then left his room to check the rest of the farmhouse.   
Mrs Carroway banked the fire each night so that all she had to do was bring the coals to life in the morning, but the coals had dimmed more than they usually did. Will stoked them back to life and went out to the yard.   
Nobody was in the barn. The cows were shifting from hoof to hoof, uncomfortable while they waited to be milked. The chickens were clucking in the yard, wondering where their food was. Will looked up at the sky; the sun was higher than it should be. Everything was late this morning.   
Plucking up his courage, Will went inside and knocked on the door to the Carroway’s bedroom. After a few minutes he knocked again. Then he steeled himself and went inside. 

*

The alderman assured Will that he wasn’t in trouble for anything. It was very common, he said, for old people to die within hours of each other. Both the Carroways had been in failing health for some time, and though it was unfortunate it had happened to them so soon after Will had joined them, nobody doubted their deaths were due to natural causes.   
Will hadn’t been able to report the deaths until close to midday, because he had had to look after the cows and chickens first. After that it was his job to help the alderman’s clerks with the paperwork – the death certificates, arranging the burial, and paying for the funeral services. Will did this all in a haze. Dimly he remembered Baron Arald saying he might inherit the farm one day, but he felt completely out of his depth just thinking about it. Then he realised the clerk was saying something that he had missed. ‘Pardon?’   
‘Mr Brighton, Will, Brighton,’ the clerk said impatiently. ‘I said if we send a letter to him now, he’ll be here within a week.’   
‘Who’s Mr Brighton?’   
‘I _said_ –’ The clerk bit back his admonishment and sighed. ‘Brighton is Mrs Carroway’s brother. He’ll take over the farm and manage it until you’re old enough to inherit.’   
‘Oh,’ Will said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.   
‘You’re welcome,’ the clerk muttered sourly, and waved Will off so he could finish the letter to Mr Brighton. Will went home, had a meal of bread and cheese, and went to sleep. 

*

Mr Brighton was a very different man from Mr Carroway. He had a rather cushy job as a local judicar in a neighbouring village, it being his job to settle simple disputes, and though he was aware of how to run a farm, he had little interest in doing so. Instead, resentful that he had to do his work through letters now – which meant paying out of pocket to send his decisions back and forth – he pushed all the work on Will.   
‘Oh, if I only had my servants from back home,’ he would lament. ‘ _They_ didn’t keep burning dinner.’   
Will didn’t bother protesting that he had never been taught how to cook. Mr Brighton carried a stout oak walking stick with him wherever he went, and hit Will with it whenever he did something wrong. According to Brighton, “something wrong” ranged from burning food to being late with chores to speaking out of turn, coughing loudly and looking like he was “thinking about getting up to trouble”. Will had to keep a carefully neutral expression around him at all times, because any expression on his face could be taken as a sign that something was wrong. At least Mr Brighton didn’t bother going into the barn and so didn’t know Bessy always spilled the pail, because Will was sure Brighton would beat him for that, too.   
It was a cold spring morning, over a year since Will’s Choosing Day, and Mr Brighton had invited his friends from his home village and surrounding ones to celebrate something or other that he hadn’t bothered explaining to Will. Will had been required to serve drinks and food for them all night. It had been the early hours of the morning when they finally fell asleep, and Will himself only managed to get a few hours before he had to be awake to do the chores for the day. The ground was still too firm to plant anything, but as Will had to collect eggs, feed the chickens, milk the cows, clean their barn – with them in it, as it was still too cold to let them go to pasture – and make cheese and butter, in addition to cooking and keeping the farmhouse clean, this didn’t mean much in terms of how much work he had to do. At least when he was walking in the field he could think and be out in the fresh air for a few hours.   
Will had been churning butter all morning. At some point some hours ago everyone had woken up and were talking in loud voices, and Will kept having to go through the thin door separating the room where he churned butter from the rest of the house to serve Brighton and his guests whatever they wanted. The noise from them drowned out any sounds he might have heard otherwise. He was just about to go back to churning when he heard a ragged yell from outside. His work forgotten, Will ran out to see what the problem was.   
Brighton was furious, his face red and eyes bulging, but for a moment Will couldn’t figure what had made the man so mad. Brighton was yelling at him now, spittle flying everywhere as he spoke. ‘ _Look! Look what you did! You useless brat, you’ve almost ruined us!_ ’   
Will looked at where Brighton was pointing and a cold dread entered the pit of his stomach.   
In his sleep-deprived state, Will had forgotten to close the gate that surrounded the chicken coops. A family of foxes were there, a vixen and four almost-grown pups, surrounded by blood, feathers, and the discarded bodies of chickens. The pups were now playing with the eggs and more than a dozen had broken. Both coops were empty, the chickens that hadn’t been killed having left.   
_Almost ruined_ was right, Will realised. It would take a long time to replace those chickens, during which they would lose a lot of income from the eggs, and it would take longer still to earn back what they had spent on the chickens themselves.   
‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t—’   
He got no farther. Brighton swung the walking stick at Will’s stomach, doubling him over as the air was knocked out of him, then cracked it over his shoulders, sending him to his knees. Another blow sent Will sprawling in the dirt. Then the cane came down again and again, hitting his back, his ribs, his shoulders, and his legs. Will covered his head and let the punishment happen. He bit his lip, trying his best to stay silent, but it soon got too much. He screamed at each blow, and when it finally stopped he lay in a sobbing, shuddering ball on the ground. He was barely aware of Brighton walking off, loudly complaining to his friends about “that useless boy”. 

*

The next morning the alderman took a report from a furious Brighton about a robbery at Carroway farm. Will, he said, had stolen a large knife used to cut cheese, one of Mr Carroway’s cloaks, some food, all the money in the house, and the horse. The alderman sent a message to surrounding villages notifying them that Will was to be placed under arrest if found, but there was little that could be done. The nation was gearing for war with Morgarath, who had been attacking the kingdom for a year now, first with the Kalkara and then with small bands of Wargals, and the villages were stretched thin.   
As Duncan’s army was defeated and as Araluen came under the control of King Morgarath, the village forgot the nameless boy who had worked on the farm. 


	2. A Chance Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a shorter chapter this time, but the next chapter is like three times as long so...it balances out? :"D

Halt O’Carrick, former ranger of Redmont Fief, trotted along the trail on Abelard. He looked for all the world like an ordinary forester, except that most foresters didn’t carry knives in an odd double scabbard, nor did they have longbows with hundred pound draw weights.   
He also, very oddly, had an acorn pinned to his shirt.   
He had been trailing some of Morgarath’s men for some time now, hoping to get an idea of where they were going. Any intelligence he could bring back to Crowley and the others would be of help. These men weren’t bothering to hide their tracks at all, which made Halt’s job all the more easy. Even in the growing dusk, he had no problem seeing the trail they left in their wake.   
Fifty metres from them Halt stopped Abelard and dismounted. He reached into the near saddlebag and pulled out a green and grey mottled cloak. In one fluid movement he swung it around his shoulders and made his way down the trail, ghosting from shadow to shadow, utterly invisible in the darkness.   
The men had gone to a farm and were very loudly demanding accommodations from the farmer and his wife. Halt couldn’t make out the words in the farmer’s response, but from the tone of his voice he knew hosting the party would be an imposition on them. He rounded a corner and slid through some trees and the farm came into view.   
It was a small farm – the house looked like it was just one room – and there were six men in Morgarath’s party. The man leading the party held up a short cudgel as the farmer’s wife protested again and the farmer grabbed her and drew her back. Halt’s hand twitched in the direction of his knives. This sort of entitlement was common amongst Morgarath’s men. He forced himself to hold back; he needed information, and he wouldn’t get it if they were all dead.   
The men now pushed their way inside the small structure, leaving their horses outside. The last one waved his hand in the direction of the horses and the farmers, taking the hint, went to tend to them. Halt took the opportunity to sneak around to the far edge of the house and settled himself under a window next to a rosebush. In the darkness, wrapped in his cloak, he would just look like another bush to anyone watching.   
The men spent quite some time laughing and drinking. An hour passed, maybe two, before the men started planning their route for the next day. They were going to Norgate Fief.   
One of Pauline’s former apprentices was there.   
Halt was just about to move when the back door burst open and one of the men staggered out. He was wearing a thick wool shirt that would serve him well in the cold weather up north. It was difficult to make out the colour of it in the dark, but it had clearly been dyed – despite the simple material, it must have cost a fair bit.   
The man tottered towards the outhouse, but couldn’t quite make it. Eventually he gave up and dropped his pants, relieving himself against the wall of it.   
Halt looked away in time to see a shadow detach itself from the barn and creep forward. The figure was small and thin, either still a teen or a young adult. To Halt’s surprise, the figure had the basics of unseen movement down: only moving when shadows moved, using natural sounds to cover the sound of its own movement, and moving from patch of darkness to patch of darkness. Halt frowned. Was it an old ranger apprentice?   
The figure grabbed the man by the hair and jerked his head back. Halt saw the figure lift a long knife to the man’s throat. Moving carefully, he slid his throwing knife out of its scabbard and held it ready, watching to see what would happen.   
‘Drop your purse,’ the figure said. Its voice was raspy from disuse, but Halt could tell the figure was a young man – old enough that he spoke with the deep voice of adulthood.   
‘I’m a kingsman,’ the man protested, his own voice much higher – whether that was his normal voice or if it was fear, Halt didn’t know. ‘I’m on King Morgarath’s official business.’   
‘Oh, really? In that case you can give me your shirt as well.’   
‘I warn you – ah!’ The man yelped as the figure smacked the knife against his exposed bottom.   
‘Shirt and purse,’ the figure said. ‘I’d rather not get blood on that shirt, but I might just deal with it if you keep delaying.’   
The man pulled the shirt over his head and let it drop in the grass, then fumbled with the purse at his belt and let that drop too. Halt heard some of the coins inside spill out of it.   
In a flash the figure grabbed the discarded items, wrapping the purse in the shirt so it wouldn’t make so much noise, and melted away into the shadows. The man hurriedly did up his pants and ran inside, already shivering in the night air.   
Halt heard the door bang shut. He wanted to follow the figure, but forced himself to wait – the voices of Morgarath’s men inside were raised in anger. Halt’s patience was justified just a few moments later when the door burst open again and the men swarmed out. All of them were clearly drunk and the sobering effect of anger only did so much against the prodigious amounts of alcohol they’d had. The men were swaying on their feet and one lifted a lantern.   
Halt closed his eyes against the bright spots that danced against his vision, silently cursing.   
‘There’s no sign of ‘im!’ one of the men slurred. ‘Ain’t no…aint’ no tracks or nothin’!’   
‘He was there!’ cried the man who had been robbed. ‘He was right there, and then he just…’   
His companions pulled him inside and the door closed firmly again.   
Halt waited half an hour to make sure the men weren’t going to leave again; then he slid from his spot to the area where the man had been robbed. A few coins still glittered in the moonlight.   
A cold smile curled around his lips. The figure was good at unseen movement, but not at hiding his tracks; to Halt’s trained eye, his trail was clear even in the uncertain light. He followed it slowly.   
The tracks went to the forest and suddenly became a lot clearer. From most people Halt would have thought it was because the person was inexperienced with moving in the trees, but Halt suspected it was actually because the figure didn’t expect anyone to be able to follow him here.   
Perhaps a kilometre into the forest Halt saw the light of a small fire flickering. A moment later he stepped into the shadow of a tree and leaned around it to look.   
It was hardly a proper camp. Three massive oak trees had grown in a rough triangle, and there was just enough space between them for a man to sit around a small fire. A canvas bag was resting against one of the trees.   
The figure was sitting near Halt. He was close to the fire, throwing his features into clear focus. He had long brown hair that he’d braided roughly and a beard that had been hacked close to the skin with a knife. Currently the figure was bent over his lap where the purse was, counting out coins and too absorbed in his task to notice he had a visitor.   
Halt slid his saxe knife out of its scabbard and stepped into the circle of firelight. ‘Drop the money,’ he said.   
The young man’s head jerked up and he sprang to his feet, coins spilling out of the purse to roll along the ground. He drew the long knife, almost as long as Halt’s saxe, and held it in front of him. He was used to it, Halt could see, but also had no formal training in its use.   
‘It’s mine,’ he said.   
‘I don’t mean to take it from you. I’m more interested in what else may be in that purse besides coins.’   
The figure’s eyes darted around Halt, taking in the knife he held and the cloak he wore. ‘You were a ranger.’   
‘I was,’ he said simply.   
That seemed to decide it. The young man was bitter, but he picked up the purse and tossed it across the fire to Halt. He caught it easily and shook it out. Coins spilled out, some rings and chains that the man had probably taken from people in lieu of payment, and then a folded bit of paper. Halt dropped the purse and picked it up.   
There was no reason to stay now. The paper wouldn’t be of any use to the thief in front of him. But something urged Halt to say one more thing.   
‘You were good back there,’ he said. ‘At sneaking, I mean.’   
‘I may not have your black magic, but I’ve picked up a few tricks,’ the young man said.   
Black magic. Morgarath had encouraged the rumour that rangers were wicked sorcerers after he took over. The peasant folk, already prone to superstition around rangers, had no problem believing it. It had made it only too easy for Morgarath to dissolve the ranger corps and banish them from Araluen – not that all of them had actually left.   
Halt tucked the paper in his pocket. ‘In the future, you may want to hide your passage better in the forest. You were so obvious that if those idiots had put together where you were going, they would have been able to track you down easily.’   
The ghost of panic crossed the young man’s features and Halt took pity on him. ‘They’re still in the farmhouse. You’re lucky they were too drunk to follow you.’   
The young man relaxed only slightly. ‘What were you doing there, Ranger?’   
‘Following them. I was hoping for some information. As it happens I’d learned they were on their way to Norgate, but this might tell me more.’ He patted the pocket where the paper was.   
The young man’s eyes were glued to that pocket. The face was almost completely blank – this whole time, he had only seen the slightest flicker of emotion from it – but those dark eyes, behind the façade of indifference, held the hunger of curiosity.   
‘I suppose,’ Halt said after a moment, ‘I could read it here by the light of your fire. I’ll tell you what it says in exchange for a meal.’   
The young man’s eyes flickered up to him, weighing his options. Then he tossed the knife at his feet so that it landed point-down in the dirt, ready for him to draw it easily whenever he needed it again, and he climbed up one of the oaks to where a bundle was dangling from a branch, well out of the reach of bears or wolves who might try and get at it. He untied it, letting it dangle from a long rope until it reached the ground, then scampered down as nimbly as a squirrel, picked up the pack and took out some dried meat, forest greens, and an iron pot. He poured in a measure of broth from a jar followed by the ingredients, then set the pot near the fire to make a simple soup.   
Halt resheathed his saxe knife and took a seat on the far edge of the fire. The boy sat as well. His gaze met Halt’s. ‘If I’m going to have you for dinner, I should at least know your name.’   
Halt considered him for a moment. ‘Arrettay, formerly of Mercator Fief,’ he said at last. ‘It’s Gallican.’   
‘You sound like it,’ the young man said sarcastically.   
‘My parents moved to Hibernia when I was a child,’ he said.   
‘Hm.’ The young man didn’t look like he believed him.   
Halt was just about to prompt him for his name when he replied. He said it slowly, like he hadn’t properly introduced himself in a very long time.   
‘My name is Will.’ 


	3. The Usefulness of Acorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was late! Updates should be more regular starting soon, I've got up to chapter nine done :3

Arretay’s face, hidden beneath his cloak as it was, nevertheless betrayed surprise when Will said his name. Will hesitated. ‘Is the warrant still out for me?’   
‘Warrant?’ Arretay said, puzzled.   
‘Forget it,’ Will said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Will” was a common enough name that when he ventured into town he rarely bothered giving a fake one. Besides, he was far enough away from Redmont that town sheriffs were unlikely to have gotten his warrant and description. Technically anyone who knew he was a fugitive would be obliged to turn him in, but as Arretay was a fugitive by virtue of being an ex-Ranger within Araluen’s borders, he figured he was safe with him.   
The fire was starting to get hot enough to cook the soup. It wouldn’t take long – Will had cooked that broth only last night, and the meat and greens he added just needed to warm up and soften. To whet their appetite in the meantime he took out half a loaf of hard bread, broke it in two, and held the two out to Arretay. ‘Pick one.’   
It was an unofficial code amongst the outlaws of Araluen. Offering to share food was a sign that you weren’t going to hurt the new person. You always let the new person choose their portion, because if you just handed one over it was possible you’d poisoned that half. And once your guest had taken their food, you always ate first, as a final show of good faith.   
Arretay took the smaller portion and Will tore into his bread. It was close to stale and the bread almost crumbled in his mouth it was so hard, but Will had eaten worse. Arretay didn’t seem to mind either, because he ate the bread without complaining.   
The soup was ready by the time they finished their bread. Will offered Arretay the only bowl he had and ate his portion out of the pot. His eyes kept flickering to the pocket the ranger had the paper in. To Will’s surprise Arretay put his bowl down when he was only half done and took the paper out. ‘Why don’t we satisfy our curiosity and take a look at this now?’   
Will was surprised that someone would put food aside for any reason, but didn’t protest. The man unfolded the paper and tilted it in the direction of the fire, leaning in and squinting to make out the letters.   
‘ “Courier at Norgate. May have info about challenger. Have K persuade her to reveal secrets. Force authorised”— _shit_.’ The muttered expletive caught Will off guard. Arretay stood without another word, shoving the paper in his pocket.   
‘Challenger? “K”? What—’ Will bit off his line of questioning. The confusion roused by the paper had momentarily overcome the habitual silence beaten into him by Brighton’s cane all those years ago.   
Arretay, who had stepped through the trees, paused. Will had to look hard to see him, and it wasn’t just because the fire was affecting his night vision – the black magic the ranger had shrouded himself in made him shimmer before his very eyes. He turned his gaze back on Will as though he was considering him. ‘If you want answers to those questions, you’re welcome to them,’ he said. ‘Find someone wearing an acorn and bring one of your own.’ Then he was gone with a swirl of his cloak.   
Will had never been given more confusing directions in his life. He picked up the half-eaten bowl left by the ranger and dumped it back in the pot. Absently he picked an acorn off the ground and stuck it in his pocket. Just in case, he thought. 

* 

Maybe the ranger had put a spell on him, or maybe he had gotten complacent after five years of successfully evading the law. Whatever it was, Will thought bitterly, it was going to be hard to talk his way out of this one.   
He stared at the wall of the local prison, constructed of thick, heavy wood planks so ancient they were hard as stone. The door was newer and had been reinforced with iron. Straw had been scattered on the hard floor, providing meagre comfort. The only light came from the small window set in the door.   
He had been cocky, he knew. He had worn the new shirt under his old one, knowing that deep blue of the wool that peeked out at the neck and hem would stand out. He had spent the money on new boots of soft leather and a new cloak. That much money coming from someone as rough-looking as him would attract attention. He had called himself Travis, but someone from the local Watch had recognised him as Will, formerly of Redmont, who was still wanted on charges of theft. Reports of one of Morgarath’s men being robbed had also come through, and though Will hadn’t been seen by his target, the fact that he was spending money freely and wearing a shirt that resembled the one that had been taken made him instantly suspicious. Now he had been left here, the ringing of the city bells the only way he had to mark the hours, waiting for the dim-witted local guards to remember they had a wanted criminal in their cells.   
Everything had been taken from him – the new items he’d purchased, the blue shirt, his knife and his dagger. All that was left to him were the linen shirt he had been wearing for years now, which had been mended dozens of times and which had stains he couldn’t get out, the too-long trousers that he had to roll up at the ankles, and the stiff, old leather shoes that were kept on with the help of bits of string. Something was digging into his skin in his pocket, but he didn’t care to remember what it was. It wasn’t a knife, which was the only thing that might help him now.   
He heard the sound of heavy boots come down the hall outside, joined by murmured voices. Soon they were close enough for him to make out. ‘I just figured, sir, as you were the one who recognised him, sir, that you’d take another look and maybe interrogate him, sir. Before we send a note to the sheriff. Sir.’   
‘Yes, yes, thank you. You can go, corporal.’   
Will heard one of the pairs of boots retreating down the hall, then the jangle of keys as whoever was outside unlocked the door to his cell and opened it.   
The man who entered was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was cut close to his head in the style of local men-at-arms who worked as every day law enforcement and his blue eyes darted once around the cell before fixing on Will. The man wore a long brown linen tunic under leather armour, belted at the waist, and had a sword and small, round shield. The stripes on the breast of his armour marked him as a sergeant, and considering he had to be Will’s age that meant he must have had enough skill to attract the favour of the sheriff. Something was stitched near the hem of his tunic, but Will couldn’t make it out. He looked up at the man’s face. It was twisted by a scar that started at his forehead and went around the inside corner of his eye to his nose, marring what Will thought might once have been handsome features.   
‘Nice to see you again, Will No-Name.’   
That specific taunt stirred something in Will’s memory and he frowned, looking up at those blue eyes again as he tried to place him. ‘ _Horace?_ ’   
‘That’s Sgt Altman to you,’ Horace snapped.   
‘What are you doing in the Watch? You went to battleschool!’   
Horace’s eyes hardened. ‘That’s none of your business. You’re a wanted man, Will No-Name.’   
‘Don’t call me that,’ Will said, but Horace ignored him.   
‘Five years ago you stole from Carroway farm, taking an amount valued at nearly fifty silver crowns, including—’   
‘A horse, a knife, a cloak, money and some food, I remember,’ Will said. ‘If Brighton wants it all back, I sold the horse and the cloak’s too moth-eaten to be of use to anyone.’   
‘Brighton died last year. Carroway farm is held by a young man named Turner now.’   
‘Then why is the warrant still active?’   
‘Because your crime is tied to the farm, not to the people who currently own it. As long as Carroway farm exists, you’ll be expected to pay back what you stole.’   
Will growled. ‘Technically that farm is mine.’   
‘You gave up all rights you had to it when you stole from it,’ Horace said.   
Will seethed for a moment; then the math caught up with him. ‘Hold on, fifty crowns? The horse was worth twenty at most, the coins added up to maybe five, and the other items I stole might’ve amounted to half a crown all together.’   
‘The charges include the price of a new horse for the farm, as well as the loss of income that came from—’ Horace checked a bit of paper, ‘—the “willful destruction of the farm’s poultry”.’   
‘That bas—that was an accident!’ Will seethed.   
‘If you wanted to take that up with Brighton, I’m afraid you’re sixteen months too late,’ Horace said, shrugging. ‘Those are the charges. Adding on the ten crowns you stole from that kingsman, and a shirt valued at six silver crowns, and the interest accrued by the court in the five years you’ve been on the run—’   
‘All right, I get it, I’m in trouble,’ Will spat.   
Horace leaned against the wall, folding his arms. ‘You’re facing a public lashing, followed by years of hard labour,’ he said, voice dangerously quiet. ‘And King Morgarath comes down hard on criminals. Just figured you should know.’   
‘You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? You’re just as bad as you were back in the Ward. No wonder you joined the bully boys,’ Will said, using the insulting term for law enforcement most outlaws used.   
Horace’s hand balled into a fist, but he turned and went to the door. As he did, the light from the door caught the thread of his tunic, making the design flash once more. Frowning, Will whipped out a hand and grabbed it.   
‘Hey—!’ Horace, caught off guard, raised his hand to slap Will away, but Will was staring at the stitching. It was rough and small, but it looked like an acorn. Abruptly remembering what was in his pocket, Will let go of Horace, grabbed the acorn, and held it up.   
They both stared at it for several moments; then Horace turned and opened the door. ‘Corporal!’   
A gangly-limbed teen ran down the hall and stood to attention before Horace.   
‘I was mistaken. This man is Travis Mathers, a hunter from Meric passing through here.’   
The corporal hesitated. ‘Sir, the items he had—’   
‘Bought the shirt at market and the knife off someone a few years back. The person who sold him the knife might’ve been Will. Travis says he went east.’   
‘Sir, but—’   
‘Are you disobeying an order? Get the man’s things, corporal! We can’t hold an innocent man!’ Horace barked. The teen jumped and ran off.   
Still unwilling to believe it had worked, Will stood slowly. ‘Hor—Sergeant, what’s going to happen to me?’   
‘I’ll escort you to your cabin. There’s a thief in the area and we wouldn’t want him to find you,’ Horace said.   
When had Horace become such a good actor? The bully Will had known from childhood wore his heart on his sleeve, but though this man kept up the façade of anger and hate Will, who had seen the real thing from him, knew this was Horace carefully channelling his emotions, staying fully in control but pretending he wasn’t. Will was impressed.   
The corporal came back with Will’s things in a bag and handed them over apologetically. ‘Here, mister. Sorry for the trouble, mister.’   
‘It’s fine. I’ve just got one of those faces, you know, it’s easy to confuse me for other people.’ He smiled at the teen. Horace glared until the teen ran off, then swung a travel cloak around his shoulders and strode out of the building, Will trailing on his heels.   
They said nothing while they were in town, nor when they were crossing the farms that got close to the forest. In fact it wasn’t until they were amongst the trees, following a broad trail, that Horace spoke. ‘Who told you about the acorns?’   
‘Said his name was Arretay,’ Will said.   
‘Arretay. Hm.’ Horace turned off the main trail to follow a deer path that picked its way through the trees.   
‘Look, do you mind explaining a bit what’s going on?’ Will said, impatience creeping into his voice. ‘Only I was just told last night that if I wanted answers to some weird things Arretay said then I’d have to give an acorn to somebody who _also_ had an acorn and – do you mind if I stop to change into the new things I bought? Only these shoes aren’t very comfortable and that wool shirt is warmer than this one.’   
Horace stopped, looking impatient, and Will instantly dropped the bag and sat down, pulling off the leather shoes. Horace leaned against a tree and folded his arms again.   
‘I don’t know what “odd things” Arretay said last night, but we’re a group who believes that Duncan was the rightful king of Araluen and that his family still belongs on the throne. We’re planning on taking down Morgarath.’   
‘Duncan’s dead,’ Will said, winding long strings of leather around the new boots to keep them in place. ‘Morgarath hunted down his family and killed them all. I know you’re not very bright, but out of the two of us I’m the one who was almost literally living under a rock since before this all happened and apparently I’m the only one of us who knows that fact.’   
‘One of them survived,’ Horace said quietly.   
Will looked up sharply. ‘Who?’   
‘I don’t know. Only two of us do, and they won’t tell us in case it leaks and someone comes after them.’   
‘Then how do you know it’s not all just some scam?’ Will said in frustration.   
‘I trust the people I work with,’ Horace said simply.   
Will pulled the wool shirt on and stood up. It was long enough for him to tuck into his trousers and he pushed the sleeves back to his elbows to keep them out of the way. The neck was open in a V that could be tied closed, but Will had too much use for string to waste it on shirts, so he tucked that in a pocket.   
‘Don’t put it away. You may want to use it to keep that acorn on you,’ Horace said. Will was confused, but shrugged and wound the string around the acorn just under the cap, then tied it around his neck. He tucked his dagger into his boot and the large knife into his belt.   
As soon as he was ready Horace straightened up from the tree and began walking again. They passed a deep creek and had to delay again to remove their boots so they could cross it, then continued on through the trees. Somehow Horace knew where they were going, and after a moment Will put it together. Twigs in low-hanging branches had been deliberately snapped in a way that most people would dismiss as the work of animals, but Will, who was familiar with the similar subtle marks that outlaws left on bark to mark which places were safe, recognised the patterns that revealed it was actually a code. He was working on figuring out what the code might be when they stepped through thick fir trees into a large open area full of tents.   
Two dozen people were milled there, all of various ages. Will didn’t recognise any of them. They wore simple forester’s clothes, and each one of them had an acorn somewhere on their person.   
Someone paused and nodded to them. ‘Horace. Who’s this?’   
‘Says he came across Arretay last night. He recognised my acorn. His name’s Will.’   
The person’s gaze flickered and Will now saw Arretay, without the cloak this time, speaking to another man with red hair. ‘All right, go talk to them,’ he said. Horace nodded and walked past him to Arretay and the redhead.   
The redhead’s gaze went straight to the acorn at Will’s throat. Will rested the urge to reach up and touch it. ‘So this is the man you spilled our secrets to last night,’ he said, and Will realised that this had to be addressed to Arretay.   
‘I hardly spilled secrets,’ Arretay said. ‘The man has skills that’ll be of use to us. He’s good at unseen movement and can climb like a squirrel.’   
‘Always could,’ Horace interjected. ‘I grew up with him in the ward. Crowley, I can vouch for him. Will’s turned to crime in the past few years, but at heart he’s an honest man. He played pranks when we were young, but always owned up to what he did. And he’s got no love for Morgarath.’   
Crowley, the redhead, glanced at the ex-ranger next to him, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Then he turned back to Will and eyed him for a long time, taking in his unkempt appearance and the knife at his belt. Will noticed similar knives in both his belt and Arretay’s, along with a smaller knife on top of it.   
‘Horace told me what you were doing here,’ Will said. ‘You want to take down Morgarath and restore Duncan’s line, right? Well, I don’t believe there’s an heir still alive, but I’ll join the fight if you’ll have me.’   
‘Hm.’ Crowley stroked his chin. ‘Well – Will, is it? – we know you can sneak around and we know you can climb. What else can you bring to the table?’   
‘Spies. Information. I know all the other outlaws around here, and we trade information between ourselves,’ Will said.   
Crowley gazed into his eyes as if trying to judge his honesty, then shrugged. ‘Well, we could always do with more spies. Welcome aboard, Will.’ 

* 

They went into one of the tents, which had a simple bed and a small wooden chest inside. Crowley and Arretay took seats on the floor, and Will followed their example. Horace stood by the door of the tent, where he could participate in the conversation while still keeping an eye on who came in or out. ‘Siward’s coming with coffee,’ he said.   
‘Oh, good. How do you take your coffee, Will?’ Crowley asked.   
‘Never had any,’ Will said.   
‘You’re in for a treat, then,’ Crowley said, as Horace opened the door and a small figure entered carrying a tray.   
The man who came in was almost as short as Will. He had close-cropped blonde hair kept back from his eyes by an ornate leather headband with acorns stamped into it and green eyes that darted back and forth. He caught sight of Will and hesitated.   
‘Siward, Will is going to join us. He’s an old friend of Horace’s,’ Crowley said.   
Will snorted. ‘Horace and I were hardly friends in the Ward.’   
Crowley waved away his objections. ‘Close enough. He vouches for you.’   
Siward apparently decided this was enough to trust Will, because he smiled at him.   
‘Siward’s mute,’ Crowley explained. ‘Deaf in one ear, too. Apparently his village was raided by Skandians and they set fire to a flour mill, which set off an explosion. He was taken as a slave on their wolfships and escaped when they came to Araluen to raid again.’   
Will glanced at Siward. He hadn’t seen anything like that headband before, but he’d occasionally robbed foreign travellers and knew that people in other countries often wore clothes he found strange. Perhaps the headband was normal where he came from.   
Siward stepped forward and set down the tray, which Will could now see was little more than a flat bit of wood. Five mugs of dark, steaming liquid were on it, as well as a small pot of honey. He prepared two of the mugs and handed one to Horace, then settled down near the side of the tent to listen to their conversation.   
Will picked up the nearest mug and sniffed it experimentally. It smelled bitter. He glanced around; Crowley was drinking his, but Arretay was spooning in generous amounts of honey and stirring it in. Crowley made a face. ‘You want coffee with your honey?’   
‘I like it like this,’ the former ranger replied simply. ‘I prefer not to suffer through the bitter taste.’   
‘It’s not suffering. See, Will’ll tell you. Try it, Will,’ Crowley said.   
Will raised the mug to his lips and took an experimental sip. He held it on his tongue for several moments before swallowing.   
He was suddenly aware of everyone in the tent watching him intently.   
Will grabbed the honeypot and added almost as much honey as Arretay had before taking another sip. ‘I’m afraid I have to disagree, Crowley. It’s _much_ better like this.’   
Crowley looked skyward and sighed. ‘It’s your influence, you Hibernian bastard. First your apprentice, now him.’   
‘Don’t blame me for having better taste than you,’ Arretay said, flashing Crowley a grin so quick Will almost missed it.   
They took some time to have a bit more of their coffees, then Crowley leaned forward. ‘So. About this note that was found last night.’   
Will leaned forward. Arretay was taking the note out of his pocket and smoothing it out. ‘Pauline sent one of her couriers to Norgate a few days ago. Officially, the courier is there to negotiate a trade deal with the Scotti, and being near the border will allow her to stay safe on our side while also sending letters back and forth rapidly. She’s accompanied by a scribe who can facilitate writing those for her as well as advise her on the law.’   
‘What’s Pauline’s real motive?’ Horace asked.   
‘They’re both there to find out what they can. Norgate is held by Keren, a former knight at Macindaw castle who was promoted to baron as thanks for services rendered to Morgarath. Pauline is hoping we’ll uncover something that’ll help us. She wants the rebellion to happen soon.’   
Arretay raised his eyes from the paper and looked at everyone in turn. ‘So far, nothing remarkable. Morgarath is so paranoid he’s in the habit of torturing anyone he suspects might have breathed in the direction of a rebel. But we’ve got a problem. Pauline sent Alyss.’   
Horace and Crowley stiffened and Siward dropped his coffee, ignoring the liquid soaking his boots and the ground in front of him. His hands were clamped over his mouth and he had gone very pale.   
Will frowned. ‘Alyss…Mainwaring?’   
‘Yeah. From the Ward,’ Horace said quietly, and a little unnecessarily, Will thought. He and Alyss had grown up together.   
Arretay kept his eye on Will now. ‘Alyss and Pauline are the only two people who know who Duncan’s heir is. And if we can trust what we read in this note, Morgarath suspects that. He’s going to try and get the information out of her.’   
‘But we’ve got the note,’ Will said, overcoming his stunned silence. ‘We’ve got it, so they won’t get the message, right?’   
Arretay shook his head. ‘Morgarath never trusts anything to just one person. Someone else in the group will have that note too, guaranteed. The message will still get there.’ 


End file.
